Death
And The Dancing Footman
Everyone has his secret fear of which even his closest friends know or suspect nothing.
Jonathan Royal's private hell was the fear of boredom. He was elderly, unmarried,
well-off, secure in his fine house and large estate. But he was bored; he must devise new
means of distraction. He had his interests, of course, such as supporting surrealist
plays; indeed he had done much to establish the reputation of young Aubrey Mandrake, the
poetic dramatist.
And it was to Aubrey that he explained his latest idea. This was his invitation to seven
friends whom he knew were each hateful to one another. That is to say, not everyone hated
everyone else, but no single member of this party would be on good terms with all the rest
only Aubrey himself; who knew none of them, would be an `outsider', so to speak.
The seven friends would arrive the following day at Jonathan's home to spend the week-end.
None of them knew of the impending presence of the others, and once assembled it would be
very difficult to separate. The winter was severe; they would have to stay indoors, remote
from other diversions. Jonathan himself would blandly act as host, assiduously keeping the
party in being.
It would be the greatest fun to watch their reactions, to see how they would have to
settle down to the enforced communal isolation. It might well give Aubrey an idea for a
play. It would, in fact, be a play in itself, as Jonathan delightedly pointed out, with
Aubrey as audience.
And a play it was to be, with the 'curtain' coming down on the miserable exit of a
murderer. But that last act was not to be written by Jonathan, but by Inspector Alleyn,
who had been called in to unravel the `plot'.

Surfeit Of Lampreys
This book is one of the few detective stories by a living writer to show signs of becoming
a classic. For instance it is the only crime story to have been included in the St James's
Library of distinguished fiction and non-fiction: `Miss Marsh bounds to the top of the ladies' class . . a brilliantly readable
drawing-room detective story, is far and away the best she has yet written.' - Maurice
Richardson in The ObserverCharming, eccentric, Micawberish . . . Chief Inspector Alleyn as distinguished
and sympathetic as ever. This is a capital detective story: gruesome crimes, light relief,
sprightly characters, good plot, resolute and broad-minded detection.' - The Sunday
Times`There is no doubt that Miss Ngaio Marsh is among the most brilliant of those authors
who are transforming the detective story from a mere puzzle into a novel with many other
qualities besides the challenge to our wits.' - The Times Literary Supplement

A Man Lay Dead
However fearful the thought of murder may be, and however horrible it is in fact, murder
does exercise a strange fascination over men's minds so that paradoxically they are quite
ready to see it enacted on the stage or screen, or even to take part in a mock murder as a
party game.
Sir Hubert Handesley was famous for his house-parties; indeed he had every right to be,
for he planned these occasions with as much care and forethought as a producer would the
presentation of a new play. Nigel Bathgate considered himself rather a lucky young man,
when through his cousin Charles, who was also to be of the party, he secured an invitation
to one of these week-ends.
He was not to be disappointed, for this time the host had planned a game of murder, which
was to be different from the one usually played at such parties. One of the guests would
be secretly chosen as the murderer and within a given period of time would have to `get
his man' by tapping him on the shoulder and telling him that he was 'murdered'. This was
to be done, of course, at a suitable moment when the others were not present, and to
ensure that he would not be found out, all the lights would be extinguished for a few
moments after the murder' had been committed.
And this indeed took place, only when the lights flashed on again and everybody came
rushing down to the Hall to see who had been killed', did they discover Charles on
the floor - with a knife through his back.
The inquest which was to follow this game, and in which the other guests were to take
part, was now taken over in deadly earnest by Chief Detective Inspector Alleyn of the Yard
- and the consequences of that game were to be more terrible than Sir Hubert could have
imagined when he planned his house-party with such zest.

Artists in Crime
There is sometimes a macabre pleasure in planning a murder, in going into every detail as
to how the victim can be killed beyond any possible doubt. It can even be rather amusing
to try to prove - theoretically at least - that such a violent deed can be perpetrated
without the criminal being found out.
The group of art students gathered in Agatha Troy's studio spent just such a morning
discussing how a model could be killed by the simple expedient of placing her in a certain
pose in which she would certainly be stabbed, quickly, and one might almost say
unobtrusively. The rub that detracts from such ghoulish enjoyment is of course the fact
that unless you are prepared to run grave risks, the foolproof murder remains simply an
idea. In this case, however, it gave someone the very idea that was wanted, for this
person decided that it would be the best way of eliminating little Sonia Gluck - the model
herself - who, although exceedingly good to behold, was vastly provoking to live with.
Whoever planned the murder would, with a little judicious manipulation, not actively have
to carry it out. The `props' and an unfortunate third party would do the rest.
Such is the situation that in fact develops; such is the problem, at once neat and
complex, that confronts Inspector Alleyn. The mystery is further complicated by the
students themselves, who exploit this dramatic situation to indulge in histrionics that
are as baffling as they are amusing.

Death In A White Tie
Death by suffocation is much quicker than most people imagine. Whoever murdered Lord
Robert Gospell (`Bunchy' to his friends) must have calculated on this, for he knew that
death would have to be quick enough and quiet enough to enable him to surprise and smother
Bunchy in a brief taxi ride together - and then emerge dressed as his victim whilst the
taxi continued its journey to deposit the `other passenger'. This much Chief Inspector
Alleyn can deduce when he proceeds to probe the mystery of his friend's murder. For Bunchy
was his friend, and in a way he felt partly responsible for Bunchy's death, because he had
been helping Alleyn privately in trying to establish the identity of a particularly
loathsome blackmailer. In fact Bunchy was about to go on to Scotland Yard the very hour
that he was murdered, and all that eventually reached Alleyn was - his corpse.
Several people might have done it for very obvious reasons, but unfortunately the motives
were almost too obvious to bear examination. For instance, Bunchy's young nephew Donald
had quarrelled with his unele about his debts, and Donald was his uncle's heir. It might
be Captain Withers, about whom Bunchy knew more than Withers liked to think. It might be
General Halcut-Hackett who believed that his wife was blackmailed by Bunchy. It might
indeed have been any one of the eight hundred guests who attended Lady Carrados ball on
the night of the murder. `It is exciting to the last degree, and the writing has a distinction that puts the
author in the front rank of crime story writers.' - The Times

Death In Ecstasy
There are many strange places of worship in London. The blank face of a Cockney Sunday
masks all sorts of curious activities. If, for instance, a few years ago, you had gone
down the King's Road towards Knocklatchers Row maybe you would have chanced on just such a
queer sect intent on their devotions at the House of the Sacred Flame.
Father Garnette did not fail his congregation there in the supply of excitement and
outlet. His services were long, peculiar, even spectacular.
On the very afternoon of her death, Cara Quayne was to have been initiated as the Chosen
Vessel. The ceremony was in fact already proceeding, when, after drinking of some special
cup necessary to the rites being performed, she dropped dead. For a moment the others
thought she was in a trance, then that she had been so uplifted by her experience that she
had died in ecstasy. They were appalled when they discovered that the cup had been
poisoned, and that she had been murdered.
This immediately provoked outbursts of jealousy, wild accusations, and even petulance on
the part of the other members of that hitherto austere sect. It provided Nigel Bathgate, a
chance spectator at this ceremony, with several odd clues which he did not fail to pass on
to Chief Inspector Alleyn, when that eminent representative of the Yard arrived on the
scene to unravel one of the weirdest and tightest problems of his career.

Final Curtain
In Final Curtain Ngaio Marsh's interest in drama and her knowledge of actors
and their ways are given full play. Sir Henry Ancred, the celebrated Shakespearian actor,
wishes to have his portrait painted in the role of Macbeth by Agatha Troy, the famous
artist - but is only willing to spare her a week of his time in which to complete it! She
is reluctant to go to his home, Ancreton, as she is awaiting the arrival after a long
absence of her husband, Chief Inspector Roderick Alleyn, at any moment. But such is the
persuasive power of Sir Henry's family that she undertakes the commission and is whisked
off to Ancreton, where the stage-like setting and the histrionic behaviour of the large
family intrigue her, and all her powers of observation are needed when, amid a welter of
practical jokes, Sir Henry dies and Chief Inspector Alleyn is called in to investigate.
`Final Curtain is the sort of comfortable delight that occasionally rewards a
long and assiduous devotion to detective stories. What a joy it is to find a detective
story written with grace and culture, moving easily amongst well-observed characters. This
is a book to buy, keep, and re-read for pleasure in its workmanship when you have
forgotten the first quick excitement of the plot.' - Observer

Critics Comments (1950/60's)`There is no doubt that Miss Ngaio Marsh is among the most brilliant of those authors
who are transforming the detective story from a mere puzzle into a novel with many other
qualities besides the challenge to our wits.'The Times Literary SupplementOf Death in Ecstasy`A really thrilling thriller which deals cunningly with murder, death, and
hocus-pocus.'Evening News`I can find no point at which Ngaio Marsh does not equal the best of all-rounders.'ObserverOf Enter A Murderer`An original and well-knit novel, with the slickest of final curtains' Observer

ABOUT THE AUTHORNgaio Marsh, direct descendant of the de Marescos,
piratical Lords of Lundy, and granddaughter of Empire pioneers in New Zealand, where she
was educated, at the age of fifteen went to an art school, where she worked for five
years. Her knowledge of painters and their ways appears in many of her novels. Then for
two years she toured with a repertory company, gaining the thorough knowledge of the stage
which is also reflected in her work, as is her knowledge of house decoration, for which
she started a business when she came to England. During one wet week-end she read what was
almost the first contemporary crime story to come her way. Until then, Conan Doyle, Wilkie Collins, and Austin
Freeman had been the sole authors of her escape literature. After reading this
story - she fancies it was an early Christie - it
seemed to her that she might venture to have a shot at something in the same vein. As a
kind of hobby and with no real hope of publication she wrote her first novel, A Man Lay Dead, scribbling it down with a lead pencil in
twopenny exercise books. On returning to New Zealand, she left this story with an agent,
and was astonished to learn some six months later, that a publisher had been found.
Most of her writing was done at her home in New Zealand. 'I like to study thoroughly
the topic with which I deal, as detective stories demand exact knowledge. I wrote a good
deal for newspapers before I began my novels, and two years on the stage also stood me in
good stead. I prefer writing about the stage to any other topic, but one must have variety
of settings.' She spent some time on the Continent, and London's worst winter in years
did not dismay her. 'It is the most comfortable place in the world to work in ' she said.
In 1948 Ngaio Marsh was awarded an O.B.E. for services in connection with drama and
literature in New Zealand.